


Bass Instincts

by aarid



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:36:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarid/pseuds/aarid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drinking games with strangers are rarely a good idea. Fortunately, "good idea" doesn't need to be in the description for Dave to try it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bass Instincts

It's 11:03, and you can feel the bass in the soles of your chucks as you walk down the street. You're lucky these shoes are comfortable, because you've been walking for forever, and you don't plan on being off your feet any time soon. You could have taken a much shorter way, but the sidewalks are uneven on the back roads, and you're afraid of breaking your stilettos. 

Oh, and you also have a better chance of surviving a race down Mt. Everest on a unicycle while balancing flaming cobras on the tip of your exposed genitalia. 

To be honest, the whole city is pretty much shit, but the night life district is surprisingly comfortable to walk through; it's the only thing cities like this have over predominantly human communities. The people here just want to relax, and when they get too drunk and unruly, the barkeeps and bouncers don't bother to kick them out. They call the cops, and if they get violent, they call an ambulance for them in advance. It's because trolls are naturally quicker to attack when angered than most humans, and not nearly as passive when offended. You know you've been on the offended end on many occasions, and you can personally attest that a drunk and angry troll will be the first to swing on their enemy ninety-five percent of the time. It helps that the bouncers are always the biggest trolls they can find to hire.

Memories of bruised eyes and busted lips will keep you from swinging more often than not, though.

–

It's 11:05 and your set just finished. They promised you prime hours next Saturday, but for this slow Friday night, you dealt with an 8-11 time slot. You guess you don't mind too much. After all, you'd rather have a large crowd listening to your best set on the busiest night. Tonight, you didn't get anything good at all, really. A couple tips, a few cheers of your name, a human girl in the crowd making eyes up at you behind the booth... Normally, you'd hit it, but as you were keeping an eye on her, you witnessed a guy about her age—probably her boyfriend—come in and take her out.

At least you managed to get a seat at the bar before anyone recognized you and tried to make conversation. It's not that you don't like the attention. It's that you don't like giving it back. You don't know these people. They're not getting you off. They're not giving you money. You honestly have no interest in club patrons if they have nothing to offer you but sweet words.

If they're buttering you up, they just want something from you anyway.

–

It's 11:13 and your first two shots are down. Two shots in the first five minutes is how you always start off. You let them settle in as you survey the crowd, and by the time you're feeling them, you can make your decision on whether or not you want to stay at the bar and drink, or get out on the dance floor. Tonight, it looks like you're not gonna get much of a choice in the matter, though. A rare thing is occurring, not that you notice it at first. How are you supposed to realize you're getting watched if the damn fool is wearing sunglasses inside a dark building?

–

It's 11:45 and you're done staring. You've been watching this asshole since he sat down, and he's already had twice as much as you. He's not even acting drunk yet.

“You having a shitty night?”

He pauses mid-sip, and his eyes find you. They're a striking, almost neon red... the same color of _your_ eyes, not that he can see. He gives you pretty much the most genuine glare you've ever seen before responding in a voice that you deem to fit him; it's decently high for a troll his apparent age, but he's short and generally tiny.

“Why the fuck do you wanna know?”

“You slammed back four shots of Jack in half an hour.”

“I'm fine.”

You don't believe him.

“I don't believe you.”

He rolls his eyes.

“I'm _fine._ Normal night here.”

“You must have a lot of shitty nights, then.”

“Okay, is there a point to you nagging at me? Because I'm getting kind of pissed off. This is a fucking club, and we're sitting at a fucking bar. Do you have a problem with me drinking at a bar, douchebag?”

You stare at him, wondering if he'll give up and look away, but he doesn't. He's just watching you expectantly. You decide you like his attitude.

“Yep.”

His face contorts in confusion, and he looks at a loss for words. You're sure he's going to be speechless. You're wrong.

“Who the fuck are you? Wait—no. No, you know what? It doesn't matter. Wanna know why? Sure you do. I'll tell you. It doesn't fucking matter because you don't fucking know me. This isn't your bar. This isn't your club. I'm not your property. You don't even know what my god-forsaken name is, you insolent shitstain. If you seriously try to tell me you have a problem with me taking part in the ritual universally known as “getting shit-faced”, I will not hesitate to heft your hipster dicklicking ass over my shoulder and haul you to the street myself. Leave me the fuck alone.”

You decide you _really_ like his attitude. You allow him a smirk, and slap your hand on the counter, ordering a round of shots between the two of you.

“Bet I can hold my liquor better than you can.”

It's not a fair bet. You've had half what he has, and you're barely feeling a buzz. He looks surprised for a second, but then determined. Somehow, he manages to go through the motions of normal emotional expression without ever forgetting to be angry at the same time.

“... You're so fucking on.”

–

It's 12:28 and you're still fighting in this stupid bet. You're tipsy, but you've been drinking at a reasonable pace with Dave. That's his name, you found out. You've found out a lot about him so far. He works here sometimes. He's a DJ, actually. He's blond. He wears the sunglasses inside in the dark “because it's ironic”. He does pretty much everything because it's ironic. He doesn't emote at most things, but not in a way that makes him seem unable to care. It's more dangerous than that, you've figured out.

–

It's 12:47 and Karkat is a photographer. You've been talking for an hour, and you've all but forgotten about the bet. You let him go on for twenty minutes straight about cameras and equipment. Lucky for you, you know just enough about the subject to hold the conversation. You've been keeping a steady tally of the things he tells you about himself, and you use a comparison method to commit it to memory. He lives about a half an hour walk away. You live down the street. He has a roommate. You live alone. He attends the local community college. You're graduated. He's 22. You're 23. He hates hipsters. You're really fucking amused by the fact that he hates hipsters. You're really fucking amused by pretty much everything that comes out of his mouth, though. He seems less so, but also invested in what you have to say. He's apparently incapable of showing any positive emotion on his face, but it's not taking long to assess him.

For instance, if you lean your head to the side enough, his eyes go from your face to the nape of your neck.

–

It's 1:09 and you give up on the bet. You've taken to just rambling while you drink in the sight of the human in front of you. You can't deny it; he's hot. But it's not just that physical attraction that has you so enamored with him. Every once in a while, you'll say something incredibly blunt, or enraged, and he cracks a grin, or even laughs. That sound makes your chest feel wiggly.

–

It's 1:40 and you're drunk. You don't know when you got on the dance floor, but you're finding out pretty quickly that Karkat is handsy when he's drunk and dancing with you. The beat of the final set for the night is pumping straight into your heart, commanding the flow of your arms and legs. Some people are watching. Most are too drunk or tired to care. Now is the perfect time to let go, and when you have a way-too-warm body pressed against you and getting your shirt riding up and your pants a little tight, you stop paying attention to the lines you might be crossing.

–

It's 1:46 and Dave tastes like vodka. The wall is surprisingly cool against your back. You're pretty sure it's Dave's hand that's up your shirt, too, but you're too focused on his mouth against yours. It's not til that hand takes a turn for the south and you feel fingers slipping under the waistband of your jeans that you decide it's time to leave. His apartment is close. The air outside is cold, but it doesn't deter you. You have a hunger now, and it needs to be satisfied.

–

It's 2:02 and your clothes are somewhere in the living room. You don't even know what's going on anymore; everything is just a blur of teeth, tongues, and fingernails as you stumble toward your bedroom. You're sure your lip is bleeding, thanks to those sharp teeth of his, but the pain just spurs you on until the last article of clothing hits the floor in front of the hallway.

–

It's 2:21 and you've never screamed so loud in your life. All you see is blurs of the walls, dark in the unlit apartment. All you taste is a slightly metallic tang in your saliva, but you think the blood is Dave's. Your body is on fire, and every thrust brings out more of the deafening curses and shouts and praises. You never bend to anyone's whims, but enough alcohol and a needy hard-on will do a lot to a guy. When Dave tells you to scream, you scream. He tells you to say his name, and it's the only word you know. He tells you to beg, and you've never sounded more desperate.

You didn't even make it to the bedroom, but the walls of the hall are plenty to keep you pinned against.

–

It's 9:33 and you don't remember falling asleep at first. Your eyes blink lazily at the window as the white morning light filters in through the crack in the curtain. You try to remember when you got home, what you did last night, why you're naked—and then Karkat shifts to his side next to you and you it all comes back.

–

It's 9:34 and your eyes crack open. The first thing you notice is the splitting pain in your head. Then the nausea. Then pale skin in front of you. Then freckles, blond hair, and intense red eyes. You freeze for several seconds before you recall how to make mouth noises.

“... Fuck.”

Graceful.

**Author's Note:**

> wow i need to practice smut


End file.
